My neighbors knew when I came back late. They knew when my parents traveled. They knew which of us kids was stubborn, which one was smart, and which one needed “serious prayer.”

Nothing could be hidden. If I tripped on the road, someone had already seen it. If I messed up, the news moved faster than I could get inside. By the time I reached the house, my name and my offense were already waiting.

As frustrating as it was, there was a strange sense of safety in it. If I was sick, someone noticed. If my parents were away, someone checked in. If trouble was coming, word spread.

Borrowing things was normal—salt, matches, kerosene, even plates. Doors weren’t always locked. Greetings were compulsory. Silence meant something was wrong.

Now, I live next to people I barely know. Same building, different lives. Everyone minds their business, sometimes too well.

I don’t miss the constant monitoring, but I do miss the community.

When did you first realize that neighborly closeness was slowly disappearing?